


The Final Judgment

by vd_human



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Love/Hate, Obsession, Real Life, Romance, Sadism, Students, Voodoo, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vd_human/pseuds/vd_human
Summary: She was in love. He dumped her. She wants to get her revenge. Being a witch, she uses her powers to make a voodoo doll, which, surprisingly, turns out to be working. They find themselves in a position none of them was expecting.





	1. Chapter 1

Inspired by Chuck Palahniuk.  
She felt disappointed that his name in her messages could no longer be greeted with warm excitement or mild panic. It has become a shameful word, reminding her of her foolishness and thoughts spilled unnecessarily. She was reluctant to even look at it. WhatsApp was now drenched with guilt.  
Guilt? Did she let society deem her unparalleled romance and world-rocking sex a fling? Since when developing feelings for someone was an act, one should feel guilty about? If more attention was paid to the situation, it would become much more confusing than the story it presented itself to be. She couldn’t believe the magical moments were now reduced to “falling for someone” in the most pejorative meaning. Yes, of course, she could not listen to third parties’ opinions, as it was obvious they are so fed up with their own drama (existent or not), as far as they could go in giving advice was to judge complicated feelings on an appallingly shallow level, classifying it quickly; people should be brought back down to their labels. If you are young, you are stupid and should listen to your siblings in their late 20’s with practically no sex life and bitter about not being married yet… She considered not talking to her sister about love life anymore. None of it rang true.  
What did ring true was what he said to her the last night they met.  
“You are crazy,” he said smiling, hyped after giving head. She must’ve said one of the things she’d like to do one time with him or in general, probably the one marked as censored in her head.  
“Cray cray?” she said grinning at him back.  
“Cray cray.”  
“Like Marla?” she meant Marla from Fight Club, the only movie she could practically recite line by line, which she knew he was very familiar with as well.  
He hesitated but then nodded again. “Like Marla.”  
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”  
“You shouldn’t.” He was still smiling though.  
Why was this the line she clung most to? Obviously, because she was a sucker for things people said about her that made her feel somewhat special. Like every young girl lost in the world. If she didn’t quite fit in, the least she could do was be special, right?  
The following night she got drunk on red wine and grief. To get so close to her soul and say they would never be together? Unforgivable. At least not easily. Undeniably, she could not blame him for not wanting to get emotionally involved, but… it was a little too late for backing off. She got addicted to the charm of his presence. The tension between their eyes got her high on dopamine. The long miraculous nights were too unique to be reduced to sex. Or was it just a perfect hookup? She wasn’t aware it can feel so right, assuming guys who hooked up with girls were to behave like assholes.  
It was all too much of a scam to her. The emotions were too intense to let go. She needed to place them somewhere. In a sudden spark of inspiration, she decided to make a voodoo doll of him so she could blame him and punish him for leaving her after saying all of the most meaningful words she had heard in a long time. He deserved it. She proceeded with a bottle of wine in hand and loud music playing from a speaker. It took several hours and it was already dark outside when she finished, but the time felt unimportant to flow she found herself in, lost in obsession. Contrary to the common picture of obsession, it feels surprisingly good if one is unafraid, and can lead to almost superhuman productivity and thus impressive results.  
The doll had about 20 centimeters and was made of the old clothes she would never wear again: a white t-shirt, yellow panties (she still liked those but the case seemed to be worth some sacrifices), black socks, and denim shorts she grew out of. She filled the doll with cotton pads, sew in buttons where the eyes should be, and put chopsticks inside so it was more-less stable in keeping the up-right position. When it was all done she looked at it with pride. It resembled him to some extent.  
“Now we just need some witchcraft,” She said to herself.  
It would be best if she had a piece of material that belonged to him, but all she had was blue camel Tabaco he bought her when she ran out. It had to do. She took a pinch of it and placed inside the doll’s belly, before sewing it. Then she grabbed it, hugged tightly to her chest, and closed her eyes in concentration, evoking all the energy she was aware of in her body.  
“You and Damien shall now be connected.” She whispered, recalling images of him and trying to put as much faith in the doll as possible.  
Intuition was all she held onto, not any specific instructions. If she was to based her actions on any particular theory, it would be the law of attraction, which claimed thoughts materialize in one’s life. They were to see if any of her efforts made a real impact on him. It was the ultimate test of her beliefs. She wasn’t aware of how oblivious she was at that time; she forgot the other crucial law of the universe: the balance of energy. One cannot take the energy without giving it back in a different form. Not that she would take into account any possible consequences, not with all the adrenaline flowing in her at that time.  
She jumped from the floor, grabbed her phone, and a small knife from her kitchen drawer. She placed the phone on the floor next to her, took the doll, and gently stabbed it in the belly, not piercing the fabric. A glance at her phone. Nothing. Of course, even if he felt it, how could he possibly know it was related to her.  
She stabbed the doll in the crotch.  
“Your balls still hurting?” she texted him, quickly, before it got to her what she was doing.  
Almost immediately she saw “typing” under his name.  
“Wtf?” the message popped up. “They weren’t until now…”  
She didn’t reply. The third message appeared.  
“Did you do sth?”  
She grinned evilly. If this was really working it was the happiest day in her life. She was interested in astrology and witchcraft but had some doubts regarding the effectiveness of the latter. It felt a bit sketchy, but she was so excited, she was far from worrying.  
Another stab in the balls.  
“WHAT THE FUCK” the next message read.


	2. Chapter 2

She was drinking wine and smoking by the kitchen counter. A deck of tarot cards was laying in between a pack of cigarette filters and an ashtray. She was reading the cards before a while ago but was done when one particular card fell out. She placed it on the top of the deck, the final judgment upright. It was her card before it became his card, it was their card. It stood for hope, also change, revolution.   
She flinched at the sound of her phone.  
“Here,” the message read.  
When she saw him at the door her heart skipped a beat. It always astounded her how tall Damien was, she had to raise her head to look him in the face. His blond hair was a little too long now and messy from the aggressively windy weather. The usual bags under his eyes looked darker than usual, she spotted veins under the thin skin. He looked tired. She could never get used to blond guys looking trashy. In her head junkies always had dark hair. This one was an abomination: a boy from a relatively good home, attending one of the more prestigious universities, taking the wrong turn.   
She was a couple of glasses in and seeing him again made her ecstatic, for whatever reason that wouldn’t had been.   
“Nice you came. Can I get you anything?” she greeted him and withdrew back to the kitchen where she placed the bottle of wine and an ashtray with a lit cigarette. “A smoke? Wine?”   
“Look,” he followed her, “It’s not like I can come over any time you want me to. I’ve got stuff to do.”  
“Ok, I’ll get right to it then,” she turned around from the counter with a bottle in hand. “Wine?” she repeated.  
“Sure,” he sighed.  
She got new glass for him and filled it up.   
“You made a voodoo doll of me,” he said straightforwardly, taking the glass from her.   
“Oh, wow,” she grinned, “how did you come to that conclusion?”   
She was mocking him. They joked about it last time they saw each other. He mentioned the voodoo when they referred to her being a witch. Because Damien was into rough sex and didn’t seem to mind pain, they used to laugh about hurting him a lot.   
“Well, did you?” he took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.  
She made way to her bed, reached under the pillow, and took the doll out, presenting it to him.  
“You tell me. Is it working?” she smirked as she pressed the doll's throat with her thumb.   
Damien started coughing violently and leaned over the counter. It could have been because of the cigarette. But it wasn’t. When he collected himself he looked at her with eyes wide open.   
“I can’t believe it’s working” she laughed.   
“Give me that” he ordered, reaching his hand out to grab it.   
“No” she leaped away towards the corner of the room. “Don’t come any close or I will hurt you worse than that!”  
“It’s technically mine!” he exclaimed trying to catch her.   
She tightened her grip. Damien must have felt faint, as he took a step back and placed his palm on a nearby wall for equilibrium.   
“Stay where you are.”  
“Okay, okay” he gasped.  
“Why don’t you drink some more and we can talk about it if you want.”  
He didn’t say anything, but returned to the kitchen and sat down with his glass. She leaned over a desk by the opposite wall, still holding onto the doll.   
“Pass me that cigarette, would you?”   
“Pass me that doll, would you?” he said with a smirk but handed her the ashtray.   
She smiled at him, took the cigarette, and lit it up again. “I thought you like pain.”  
“You’re crazy.”  
“Yes, you’ve said before.” She blew out smoke as she said it. Then she took a doll and pressed the burning end of her cigarette on its little white hand. Not too hard, though, as for it to extinguish.   
“Fuck!” he hissed grabbing his hand and wincing. “Stop that!”  
It felt surprisingly satisfying to watch him suffer like that. It didn’t look like when she was hitting him during sex, which he enjoyed. Now he had no power whatsoever and seeing him confused in his role amused her.   
“Nah. I wanna hurt you.” She pressed the burning cigarette harder.  
“Stop, okay?!” Damien growled in pain, hugging his hand to his chest.   
“I’m only getting started.”  
“Look, I get that. You want to hurt me. Maybe you don’t even have a reason, maybe you’re just a sadist, which” he paused to take a breath, “I think you are. But…”  
“Aha? Why wouldn’t I keep torturing you if I can?”  
He smiled and looked up at her, still cowering and holding his hand. “I honestly don’t know.”  
She smiled back. This guy was exceptional in his approach to the most gruesome things people could do to each other. She remembered him being reluctant to admit the extent of pain he felt as she whipped his ass with the metal end of a belt, then complaining about the marks it left. A couple of times he mentioned being unafraid of torture because, as he put it ‘life was torture anyway’. It stroke her as cocky and untrue, something an edgy teenager would say to draw attention. She made it her goal to see the more honest side of him. In other words:  
“I’m gonna make you cry and beg for mercy for real.”  
“Great,” he said unconvincingly.   
“You might wanna drink a lot tonight.”   
He scoffed, letting go of his hand and taking his glass. “Whatever you say.”  
She grabbed a pencil laying on her desk next to where she was sitting. It was sharp enough to cause Damien to yelp in pain and curl up as she lightly stabbed the doll’s crotch. He managed not to spill the wine.  
“Jesus, fuck! Not my balls, please…”  
“Why not?” she stabbed it again, harder.   
“Agh! Don’t!!” he cried.   
“Quiet, I have neighbors.”   
She leaned over the doll, ready to inflict pain on Damien again.   
“Wait! Okay? Wait!” he made his way up from the chair and towards her in a desperate impulse, hunching his back and holding onto his crotch with one hand. He stopped midway as she lifted the doll and held the pencil to it. He lifted his palms up slightly in a surrendering gesture and backed off.   
“You want something. What is it?”  
She scoffed.   
“First of all,” she reached over to the other end of the desk and handed him a pair of handcuffs, “strip.”  
He sighed and took his shirt off obediently, then reached for the handcuffs. They were cold and heavy in his hand. He held them looking her in the eyes seriously.  
“If I’ll be your bitch tonight will you let me go in the morning? I really have things I have to take care of.”   
“Deal. Then I’ll see you tomorrow night again. And every night after that unless I say otherwise.”   
“Are you serious?”  
“That’s a terrible way of begging for mercy.”  
He grunted and shut his eyes. “Back or front?”  
“Back.”  
She watched him close the handcuffs behind his back then approached him to make them tighter.


End file.
